The Psalter (15 page)

Johannes ran from the
schola cantorum
into the gloomy darkness, leaping across pools of water in the Vatican countryside, the hem of his robe clutched in his fists. Past the ruined Hadrian’s tomb sacked four hundred years earlier by the Visigoth Alaric, he fled over the Sant’Angelo bridge and crossed into Rome.

The defenseless wisp of a priest should have picked a safer path to the
patriarchum
as Baraldus had shown him, farther from the river, but the bells urged him to make haste. Instead, he followed the muddy
via Maior Arenule
that paralleled the Tiber. It was a dangerous, low-lying street that led straight through the
Campus Martius
, the field of Mars, where Rome’s proud heroes once walked. Centuries later, only the poorest souls lived their meager lives near the riverbank in the unhealthy air. Fortunately, Johannes reached the corridor between the crumbling Imperial Palace and Tiberian’s palace without incident. He lengthened his stride along the paved
via Papale
from the Colosseum to the
patriarchum
.

Mud stained and heaving, he dashed into the
scrinium
. The door to Anastasius’ cell was closed. The
secundarius
burst into the room without knocking. Anastasius sat at his desk opposite a deacon, their heads pushed together.

The archive
primicerius
bolted from his chair, but relaxed as he recognized his assistant. “Shut the door Johannes,” he said.

“What news? Is it an attack, the Saracens?”

“Worse, it’s the Holy Father.”

“Gregory? Is he…”

“
Vicedominus
Adrian tapped on Gregory’s head three times with the silver hammer, calling his name. His Holiness did not reply. He’s gone to his brethren.”

Johannes’ lip quivered. He had never met the Pope, but Gregory had been God’s emissary on earth and represented everything holy.

The man sitting across from Anastasius stood, and the
primicerius
introduced him. “Have you met Deacon John Hymonides?”

The
secundarius
dabbed his eyes with his shawl. “No, but I’m aware of your work with the poor and I read your writings.” Turning back to Anatasius, he asked, “His Holiness was old, but seemed in good health. I had no idea he was ill.”

“He wasn’t ill.”

“How did he die?”

“The
vicedominus
said he suffered an attack of apoplexy.”

“I saw his holiness last night at the evening meal,” Deacon John said. “He became dizzy and slurred his words until he was no longer able to speak, as though he had been struck dumb. His hands and arms went limp, and he sweated freely as if he worked in the hot sun. His breathing was labored.”

“Hemlock,” Johannes said.

“You know your poisons,” Deacon John replied. “I scoured my brain to think what would cause such a seizure. It didn’t occur to me that His Holiness might have been poisoned until Cardinal di Porca announced that Gregory had succumbed to apoplexy. Then I knew. Of course, the symptoms are similar, paralysis and dizziness, but not the sweating nor difficulty breathing. I asked to view the body but was refused.”

“Hogsmouth told you this? When?”

“This morning after the prayers of
Terse
in the palace dining hall. He said His Holiness died at dawn. Why?”

“I was just with him in the
schola cantorum
. When the first bell rang, he seemed as shocked as I. I thought it was because…well, I asked if he knew why the bells tolled and he said he did not.”

Anastasius turned to Deacon John. “They begin even now to weave their web.”

“What do you mean?” Johannes felt alarmed.

“Don’t you grasp what’s happening? The poison would take but a few hours to do its work, so Gregory passed away last night. Yet they tell the senior clerics he died at dawn and the bell announcing his death rings a full day later. Then Hogsmouth denies he knows anything. They’re buying time to move their pieces into place. We cannot waste a minute.”

Deacon John Hymonides took Anastasius’ hand in his own. “I beg you to listen, Brother. I hold no lofty ambitions, and you’ll put your life in danger.”

“My friend, it must be done for the church. I would do it myself, but the people don’t know me, and they love you. Alas, time is not on our side. Your name must be put forward at once so the citizens can be alerted and organize. Then you need to go into hiding and stay alive until the people choose you as pope. The nobles wouldn’t dare touch you once you’re elected, at least not openly.”

“Perhaps, but once you put my name forward, your life in Rome will be over. Worse, when the Emperor discovers that you nominated me instead of standing yourself, you’ll lose his favor and his protection. Then Theophylact and the other lords won’t hesitate to harm you. This I cannot allow.”

“There might be another way.” Johannes spoke in a soft, uncertain voice.

Anastasius and the Deacon stared at the young
secundarius
.

“What if Deacon John’s name was shouted from the crowd? I mean from the entire crowd at once, a sort of spontaneous proclamation?”

Anastasius looked skeptical. “How could it be done? First, the public must be told that Deacon John is a candidate, and secretly. Then the assembly would have to be prompted to proclaim his name at the right time and loud enough to drown out the nobles. This is a complicated undertaking and John and I are watched. Spies are everywhere.”

“I travel unmolested through the city every day.”

“Who do you believe might accomplish such a thing?”

Johannes Anglicus smiled slyly. “The most unlikely of Romans.”

15
Interregnum

Children wrapped in homespun rags, chosen from penniless families, led Gregory’s funeral procession. One of the older boys held a large wooden cross aloft with both hands. Archdeacon Nicholas and the Lateran’s
vicedominus
, Cardinal Adrian, trailed side by side, festooned in sumptuous robes covered by sleeveless chasubles. The cardinal priests followed, surrounding a horse-drawn cart. Upon the cart lay Gregory’s remains, robed in Papal white, resting on a bier.

Archpriest Pietro di Porca should have led the cardinals, but chose instead to lead the singers of the
schola cantorum
as they chanted mournful
te deums
. His lofty tenor voice rose above the others, angelic yet somehow out of place. The proud aristocracy in their finest fashions marched after the choir, led by Count Theophylact, who measured his pace, leaving an ample gap between the nobility and senior clergy. Rome’s commoners followed in a quasi-organized column: common priests, then merchants and artisans, with farmers and the poorest straggling at the end.

The procession stretched more than a mile as it inched from the
patriarchum
to the basilica of
Santi Quattro Coronati
. Johannes walked among the weeping clergy. He spied tall and stately Anastasius ahead, walking next to Deacon John Hymonides. Their heads were bowed and hands tucked inside wide sleeves. As they passed the needy inhabitants of the Colosseum, no whistles or taunts were hurled. Ragged souls crowded outside the arcade and simply fell into step behind the long, creeping line.

All morning, the funeral march trod the streets and broken roads. Citizens filled the ranks, swelling the pageant of mourners. People at the edges were forced further down the parade. The column bulged in the middle like a just-fed snake as it wound through the remains of the Roman forum, once the center of commerce and politics. Now, however, the dilapidated Forum was covered with earth, and oxen grazed on the grasses.

Johannes felt a wave of revulsion as they turned northwest at the basilica of Santa Maria in Aracoeli. Criminals had been executed on the steps, and blood stains tinted the stone a gruesome pink. He was relieved when they had passed it for the blemishless basilica of Saint Mark. Finally reaching the Sant’Angelo bridge, they crossed the Tiber.

The throng filled Saint Peter’s to overflowing, and thousands were relegated to the winter chill outdoors. Menacing black clouds threatened to drench the bereaved. Gregory’s bier was placed in front of the Altar of the Confession. The mounds of parchment had been nearly emptied, thanks to Johannes’ labor. Only a few small piles remained.

Requiem mass lasted the entire day, with the required prayers of the
office of the dead
recited. Five different bishops gave five absolutions, beseeching God’s mercy on Gregory. The last was delivered by Anastasius’ uncle, Bishop Arsenius. At the appointed hour, Archdeacon Nicholas arose. His subordinate deacons followed, including John Hymonides. They lifted the bier and carried Gregory through the
Door of Death
which led to the grotto, the popes’ cemetery beneath the basilica. The bell in the tower tolled and the ring vibrated off stone walls, then softened as the echo faded to stillness.

The clergy followed, descending rough-hewn steps as they chanted hymns with antiphons and responsories. Johannes noted the look of surprise on their faces as they passed the shelves crammed with documents.
Where did they think the mountain of paper had gone
, he thought to himself.

Deacon John scattered salt to exorcise the tomb, and the cardinal priests lowered Gregory’s body into a casket of cypress covered with a lead-and-fir exterior. The coffin was closed and carried into the empty crypt. The hovering sextons began to seal the stone even before the assembly climbed out of the grotto.

A crowd of thousands milled in the basilica’s
piazza
. At the edges of the throng, they started to disperse. Rivulets of people turned into streams flowing back to the city. Johannes thought he might stop at the
schola cantorum
to consider which rooms would be most accommodating for a library. But in his pensiveness, he had no desire to be confronted by Hogsmouth. So he walked on, carried by the gentle current of common Romans.

It was somehow comforting to share his grief with the rabble who wore no official masks. Tears flowed and snippets of conversations reached Johannes’ ear as people related anecdotes about a charity the Pope had shown or a forgiveness bestowed. Some spoke of his untiring efforts to reconcile the Emperor with his greedy sons.

Johannes eavesdropped on a poignant conversation. A mourner held his audience rapt with a tale that the pope’s mere blessing had cured his beloved child of an evil malady. The
secundarius
was dabbing at a tear with his sleeve when a hand grabbed his frock and steered him into an unsavory inn, pushing him onto a stool in the darkest corner. Anastasius was out of breath and blew hard. “I saw you leave, but couldn’t reach you through the crowd.”

“What’s happened?”

“I overheard Theophylact speaking to Hogsmouth. The papal election is set for tomorrow.”

“Impossible. There must be an
interregnum
, a delay of at least three days.”

“Do you think Theophylact or Pietro di Porca care a whit for the law? They need a new pope before Emperor Lothair can react to Gregory’s death.”

“Perhaps they feel safer asking for forgiveness rather than his permission. The outcome would be more certain.”

The innkeeper returned with wine, and Anastasius took an uncharacteristically long draft. “We must thwart their strategy. What have you done to get Deacon John nominated?”

“Done? There’s been no time.”

“There’s less now. Can you do it or not?”

“By tomorrow? Organize the entire city? It would take a miracle.”

“That’s what we need, for I fear we’ve been outwitted.” The archivist hung his head. “I’m left with no choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“Only one chance is left under the circumstance. I must put my name forward as the Emperor’s candidate. Many foreign priests would raise their voices for me.”

“Perhaps, but they’re not here and can’t arrive in time. That’s what Theophylact has counted on. The nobles will carry the day. Our only hope is for Lothair to nullify the election. You must get word to him.”

“Uncle Arsenius has already sent riders, but Lothair is capricious and shrewd. Should he sense that Hogsmouth has the support of the nobles, he might waver. It rests with me to me stop Theophylact.”

“If you do this thing, disaster will rain upon your head,” Johannes said.

“The count’s grip on Christ’s Church must end.”

Johannes recognized desperation in Anastasius’ dark eyes. “I have a day. Let me try.”

“My dear friend, thank you for your help, but the game’s over.”

Johannes Anglicus finished his wine in one long swallow. “I have a day. Promise me you’ll do nothing ’til the morrow.”

Anastasius shook his head.

“Do you swear?”

“I will wait until tomorrow, but only until the nominations.”

Johannes fled the inn, heading toward the Tiber. The going was slow, weaving in and out of mourners shuffling in the opposite direction. He crossed the Jews’ Bridge onto Tiber Island, then the
Cestius
Bridge into the Trastevere. The streets were empty even though the sun had not yet set. Shops were closed, their shutters shut. The bustling multi-storied apartment blocks were silent. An eerie calm had settled on the Jewish ghetto.

Johannes easily found the Temple of the Hebrews. Everything, however, looked different in the daytime, less forbidding. In the light, he saw that the synagogue had been fashioned with simple, straight lines in a massive rectangle with a triangular gabled entry, like the elegant classical buildings of ancient Greece. It was larger than he remembered. He reckoned that a thousand would fit inside the stone walls.

He rapped on the door of the Rosh Yeshiva’s low, brick house next to the temple until it opened narrowly. A dark-bearded face peered from the opening. “Ah, Father Johannes,” the voice said in a hushed tone. The hide merchant, Elchanan HaKodesh, widened the opening a bit more.

“I must talk to your father.”

“The Rosh Yeshiva confers with rabbis of the city. These meetings often last long into the night. I mean no disrespect, but tomorrow would be better.”